The Thrill of The Hunt
by Aleandri
Summary: Sterek. Pre-Season 3. Stiles is convinced Derek hates him, right up until he is taken from BH and finds himself knee-deep in werewolves at the Werewolf Capitol. Surprisingly, a furious Derek drops everything to rescue him. The BH pack is going on a field trip! But can they rescue spastic!Stiles before he is claimed as a mate during The Hunt? 'M' due to sexy-times!
1. Chapter 1

Folks, I am writing this purely for my own fun. I have had the idea rolling around in my head while I try to write my SPN fanfic and it has been super-distracting. So, this is me 'sparta-kicking' the TW story out of my mind so I can focus better. This should be pretty short and straightforward.

It is set Pre-Season Three in a slightly different TW world, where Derek is something like an heir to a (huge) Hale pack, but has been laying low to avoid his duties in BH. Then Peter ruins everything... It is still basically canon, the others just don't realize that Derek is a big deal outside of BH until this point.

Also, the boys (all of them) are seniors and Stiles is eighteen (Just let it happen. Feel your mind stretch to accomodate the changes...).

My goal is to make Stiles as awesomely spastic and fun as he is in the show, while also adding in lots of sexy Sterek.

Let me know how it works out, please. -^o^-

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><p>The first thing Stiles noticed when his eyes finally fluttered open was Scott's worry-stricken face leaning over him. The second thing he noticed was that every part of his body was pulsing with pain. Clearly he had been hit by a bus. This was it. The end. The big finale. Good-bye cruel world, riddled with girls who wouldn't look at him twice, test and quizzes, homicidal supernatural forces, and- oh yeah!- fucking werewolf jocks that don't know how to dial back when playing lacrosse with very frail, puny, breakable humans!<p>

Fucking Jackson.

"Dude, are you okay? That looked…_rough_." Scott's voice acted like a homing beacon for Stiles dazed and pain-rattled mind. He watched bleary-eyed as his best-bestie shot a dirty look across the field. He turned his sore neck painfully to follow the heated glare, only to see an unrepentant Jackson shrug and smile smugly. Because that's what massive, ego-centric douchebags do- FYI. They abuse their supernaturally endowed werewolf hulk-strength and cause pain and suffering to the mere mortals cursed to be around them.

Scott returned his sympathetic gaze down to Stiles just as coach blew his whistle from where he was standing by the bleachers.

"Ballinski! I said to GUARD Jackson- not plant yourself in his path and stare at the pretty flowers! For God's sake, we have a tournament next week! What if you had hurt Jackson, huh? And Jackson! How about PASSING for a change?! McCall was wide-open! Hell, half your team was wide-open! Geez!" He blew his whistle loudly several times in rapid succession. "All right! Today's a loss! It's starting to look more like a Black-Friday Sale at Walmart than a lacrosse practice out here! Wrap it up and hit the showers!"

Stiles huffed a disparaging sigh from his place on the ground, taking Scott's proffered hand gratefully as he gently hoisted his aching body off the ground.

"That was an obvious foul, man. I'm gonna tell Jackson to knock those stunts off, alright? He knows better than to be using his wolf-strength in public like that." Scott whispered and turned his frowning face to Stiles' as he began to hobble towards the locker rooms with the rest of the team.

"Oh, yeah. Sure. Please point out for, like, the millionth time that I am breakable. Because he has listened SO WELL in the past. Face it, Scott- the dude is an arrogant jock with zero braincells and a massive superiority complex. Add werewolf super-powers to the equation and you end up with a very bruised Stiles- emotionally and physically." Stiles hissed angrily under his breath, knowing Scott had no trouble hearing him.

A shove from behind almost sent Stiles face-first back onto the damp and muddy field.

"Okay-yeah! Real mature! You're sooo cool!" Stiles shot angrily at the laughing Jackson and his group of cronies as they passed around him."

Duh, Stiles cursed himself. If Scott could hear him, then so could the Gauche-King, himself. Funny how these little things slip the mind following a fucking CONCUSSION. Stiles stumbled back up to standing position, ready to release a stream of angry curses, but Scott beat him to it.

"Hey- cool it, Jackson!" Scott practically growled at the boy, the low notes apparently hitting some nerves for his inner-wolf. Jackson's smile dropped for just a moment before he shrugged again and walked confidently inside.

"Yeah, that's right, Kujo! Go on, with your… perfect cheek bones and… hundred dollar cologne! WE'RE AT LACROSSE PRACTICE! Who the hell wears expensive cologne just to roll around in the mud and grass, all sweaty and arm-pitty and gross! WE'RE NOT IMPRESSED!" Stiles was cut off by a pat on his back from Scott, signaling that he was only embarrassing himself for no reason. As usual. Yep, no news-breaks there. Stiles gets humiliated in front of everyone, then follows it up with a healthy dose of self-inflicted humiliation that is shrugged off by everyone. Outstanding.

"Don't sweat Jackson, dude. He's a jerk." They strolled/limped inside and over to their lockers and began changing. Every tiny movement sent jolts of dull, aching pain through Stiles entire body. Man, he was going to be black and blue by dinner. Fucking fantastic. Scott began packing his bag quickly as he asked, "So, what was that out there, anyway? You were actually on your game today. That's why Jackson was so pissed. Why'd you zone out and give him an opening?"

"Oh, that's classy! Re-victimize the victim, Scott. Because it was totally MY fault that Jackson decided to run me over like a freakin' semi-truck. Fabulous." Stiles tossed his clothes and gear into his gym bag in annoyance, but was secretly preening from the compliment that he had actually managed to hold his own for, like, the first time ever today. After a few seconds of busy packing, Stiles couldn't act furious any longer. "…I was pretty awesome today, huh?" He broke into a wide smile. "I maybe could have even 'for-real' blocked Jackson if I hadn't been watching that crowd spying on us like creepers. Seriously, dude, you saw them, right? There was like, a whole group of people scoping out our practice from over by the far bleachers. I mean, talk about competitive. Just saying- if other schools have to send out parents and coaches just to check out our team, they are hitting an all-time low. I was totally about to flip them the bird when Jackson steam-rolled me." Stiles thought back on the dozen or so people standing not-so-covertly by the woods near the bleachers. Yeah, so it was a public place, but seriously? They looked almost like professional-league lacrosse players themselves. The men were mostly muscle, hard-eyes following the game intently. The couple of women with them weren't exactly delicate looking either. Hmmm, now that he thought about it, they may have even been scouts. From _colleges_. Shit- and they had front row seats to watching Styles get beat-down. Thanks a ton, Jackson. Out loud, Styles mused, never seeming to break his steady stream of words. "He was probably jealous that people were seeing my A-game, huh? Couldn't stand me being in the spot light, you think? " He flashed a cheeky grin at Scott who harrumphed, but nodded.

"Yeah, you've definitely been getting better. Like, a lot, man. If me, Issac and Jackson didn't have, uh," He checked around them to make sure they wouldn't be overheard. Most of the other players had already filtered out, eager to get home. One or two people were changing out of earshot of the two. The locker room was mostly silent in the area where they stood. He turned back to Stiles, voice quiet, "Uh, an _advantage_, then I seriously think you would be a contender for Captain. It's too bad."

"Pssh. True that. I could totally be like, running the team by now. I mean, all this fleeing for my life through forests and trying not to be killed by supernatural lizards and werewolves and all the crazy shit around here has really honed my skills. Total bummer that you guys are contributing to my success while at the same time acting as the only barrier to it. Worst. Bestie. Ever. You oughta be ashamed. A real friend would resign from the team and let his BFF shine for once." Scott was grinning widely beside him as Stiles ranted.

"Sorry, dude. You know I would if I thought it mattered. But, that would just leave you alone to deal with Isaac and Jackson. What kind of friend would I be then?" He zipped up his bag and leaned against the locker, waiting for Stiles.

"Uh, probably about as good of friend that you are now. I mean, I'm still getting pummeled half to death on the field by Jackson as it is. And Isaac, too. Hell, if he had been here, instead of group-brooding with Derek and the others, I may have needed to be stretchered off today. Can't you use your super-wolfy bonding skills to, like, discourage them from using me as a personal chew-toy?"

"Aw, sorry, bro. Isaac's part of Derek's pack, and you know Jackson won't listen to ANYONE. I can't really check them when they're out of line. Maybe I could talk to Derek, though. Get him to use his Alpha-voice, or whatever, to make them back off from you?"

"Oh, God- PLEASE DON'T. Derek might encourage them to just rip my throat out and end it all quickly. That dude is like, out for my blood or something. He totally has this not-so-subtle homicidal vibe around me. I half-expect to see him slither out from under my bed or come busting out of my closet on dark, stormy nights. Seriously, dude. He has no appreciation for my valiant efforts to constantly help dig his- and his pack's- furry asses out of the holes they keep digging themselves into. None! He just goes all broody, like 'I didn't ask for your help, pathetic, scrawny, human-boy, so flee quickly before I lunge at your jugular and rip it out with my teeth'."

Scott suggested thoughtfully, "I don't know, dude. I can't be a hundred percent sure, cause he's crazy-good a masking his scents from other werewolves. But, I don't get the impression he is interested in killing you. He acts tough and stand-offish, but if he seriously didn't appreciate you helping out, I think he would have found a way to cut you out of everything by now."

"Yeah, dude. By KILLING me. Like I've been saying all along. He's probably just looking for an easy way that wont get pinned on him. Why waste his super-manly alpha-male strength ripping me limb from limb just to get busted and go back on the run from the cops. I doubt anyone is going to believe ANOTHER animal attack around here. I mean- geez!- we must have the highest rate of animal attacks per capita in the US! How has no one gotten suspicious by now? No, he's planning something special for me… Oh-hey!" Stiles through his hands up, a thought dawning on him. "Maybe he recruited Jackson to be his hitman to take me out! That would totally explain the assassination attempt on the field today!"

Scott burst out laughing as Stiles finally shut his locker and turned to face him. "Dude, it wasn't that bad. I mean, if he was trying to kill you, it wouldn't be all that hard. Even WITH your amped-up lacrosse skills." Stiles rolled his eyes, wincing as he lifted his heavy bag up to his shoulder. The locker room was almost completely empty, and Stiles was ready to call it a day. Scott frowned at his friend, then smirked. "Hey, you want me to do the whole 'take away the pain' thing on you? It's no problem, and you'll feel a lot better."

"What? Yikes! No way, man. I def don't want you to lay your hands on my body and feel me up wolf-style. That's some weird shit, dude."

Scott's smile got wider as he closed the gap between them, running his hands smoothly over Stiles' bare arms, drawing up goosebumps from the other boy, who immediately tried to jump back, instead slamming himself into his locker. "Whoa! Stranger-Danger! Mitts off, dude!" Stiles tries to wrest himself from Scott's tight grasp by raising a leg to wedge between them and kick him off. Scott laughed out loud and raised his arms to wrap Stiles in a full-blown bear-hug.

"STILES! WHY DON'T YOU WANT ME TO TOUCH YOU?! JUST LET ME HOLD YOU AND I CAN TAKE AWAY ALL THE PAAAIIIINNNN!"

Stiles flailed uselessly, nearly choking on his laughter, knocking them both off balance. They stumbled heavily onto the wooden bench behind them, Scott landing on top of the red-faced Stiles. "HAHAHA! Scott- you fucking loser! GET OFF! HAHAHA!"

"STILES! WHY CAN'T YOU ACCEPT ME AND MY WEIRDNESS? JUST GIVE IN! IT WILL FEEL SO GOOD!"

The two boys ended up in a half-wrestling, half-hugging match with Stiles practically shrieking at Scott to let go in between sobs of laughter.

A far-off locker shut with a metallic clang.

Both boys froze, turning in the direction of the sound.

From behind the far row of lockers, Danny emerged, ears red, and made straight for the exit directly past them.

Stile's managed to lift his hand as high as he could, what with it being trapped by Scott's arms, and gave a little wave and cheerful shout, "'Night, Danny. Have a glorious weekend."

Danny's eyebrows rose briefly and he gave a short nod without looking in their direction before pulling open the door and darting out.

Both boys remained frozen in place for several more seconds, waiting for the embarrassment of the situation to pass. Danny of all people... After a few moments, Stiles turned his eyes to Scott's, just inches from his own, and asked, "Don't even pretend like you didn't know he was in here," he admonished. Scott flashed a beaming smile at his friend. After a few more moments, just enough time for their positions to get really nice and awkward, with neither wanting to bitch-out and move away first, Stiles asked quietly, "Hey, bud. Just wondering… could you like, scent if he was, maybe, turned on?"

"Dude!?" Scott hopped up laughing, finally releasing Stiles. He grinned incredulously as he picked up his bag. "You're not still hung up on that whole 'do gay guys find me attractive' thing, are you?"

"For SCIENCE, Scott! I'm just a teency-weency bit curious. I mean, senior year- no girlfriend, a guy has got to start reconsidering his options at this point. So? Any hotness-vibes rolling around the air?" He waved his hands around in a big circle, eyes hopeful.

Scott scrunched up his nose with a chuckle, "No, dude. Just alarm. He was alarmed with a hint of embarrassment. You happy?"

"Awww. Not even a whiff of interest? No subtle curiosity? Geez, I don't even have a shot with other dudes? Sometimes I wonder if I'm even playing the same sport as everyone else. Like, you guys are all playing baseball and I'm off over here doing competitive ribbon dancing or something." Stiles sighed mock-forlornly as he lifted his bag to head out behind Scott. He frowned for a moment, then shouted at Scott's disappearing back, "Hey-! Dude, no way! YOU DID IT! YOU ACTUALLY DID THAT CREEPY TOUCHING TRICK ON ME!? Uh, I feel so _violated_-!" He hurried after Scott, shouting about what a pervert he is and demanding his bruises back.

…-^o^-…

It was already dark as the two boys made their way outside and across the large school parking lot to Stiles' jeep. They were laughing loudly, Stiles buzzing energetically around Scott, flapping his arms and moving constantly.

They threw their bags into the jeep and hopped in before driving off into the distance.

In the dark and chilly night air, the soft, almost imperceptible sounds of nimble feet crossing over dead leaves filled the silence.

The members of the large group emerged from their separate hiding locations and met together just inside the tree line of the ink-black woods.

"You are sure _that_ was Stiles? Stiles Stilinski? The ONLY one in this area?" A deep voice asked, disbelief in his tone.

"That is what Peter Hale reported. I checked several times. It is him." There was a small pause, in which nobody moved or spoke, seemingly all thinking carefully.

A third voice, female, spoke up, "He did not tell the Board that it was a _young man_." She gave a small growl, then added, "That's just like him. He probably intentionally didn't mention it, all for his own amusement. The Board is NOT going to find it as humorous if Peter has lied to them."

The second voice spoke again, quickly and sharply, "We do not know that he HAS lied." There was another silence, filled with the group pondering the possibility.

The female voice was the first to speak again, her incredulous words filling the crisp night air. "But, he's a GUY. A boy. Just a high school kid. No one here _really_ believes that Derek Hale, the heir to the _entire_ Hale pack, could actually-"

"Are you suggesting that Peter Hale, the current leader of the entire Hale pack, would risk his family's name and honor to lie to the Board about this?" Another, more stern voice growled out, threat lacing his words.

More tense silence filled the night.

The second voice finally stated carefully, "It is not our place to question Derek Hale, or his wolf's, choices. These things are decided by the Fates, not us. If Peter was being truthful," Several warning growls sounded lowly, and the speaker continued cautiously, "which I am SURE he WAS, then we will proceed as ordered. We need to act swiftly, before Derek catches our scents in his self-proclaimed sanctuary. We were directed to move fast, before he could react and stop us."

"If any of this is even true." Snapped the woman loudly. The growls started again, deeper and more dangerously, but she wasn't deterred. "I _cannot_ believe this. And no one else will, either, if we take that boy to the High-Den! There is no evidence to support Peter's claim. Why is Derek and his scent not present around the boy? Why does he allow the (Soft/Warm/Soapy) beta to be close- to put his scent on him? And you all saw the (Arrogant/Pretty/Sickly-Sweet-Smelling) beta assault him. That would not be acceptable. This is surely a farce-"

"**Enough**!" The stern voice bit out with fierce authority as his eyes flashed red in the darkness, drawing a small whine from the woman, and causing the rest of the large group to whimper nervously. "You are dangerously out of line. We have a mission, and we are not meant to question the orders of the Board. We will take this 'Stiles Stilinski' to the High-Den, as ordered. It is the will of the Board that the heir of the Hale pack not shirk his responsibilities any further. He will join The Hunt or risk this young man being claimed by another. If he does not come to the boy's aid, then and only then, the Board will question Peter Hale's word. For now, we will trust the current leader of the Hale pack and treat this young man as the Hale heir's mate."

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><p>Okay. So, there's the intro. How was Stiles' character? Accurate?<p>

The story seem kind of predictable?

Just roll with it- I'm going to have fun with this fic.

BTW-Will be going up in rating shortly. Cuz it's Sterek.


	2. Chapter 2

Hey everyone! I'm surprised by the show of support for this story. So many 'Follows'! I appreciate it. As I said before, this is pretty much just a chance for me to have fun during my downtime from another story, so I'm just going to keep pushing forward and enjoying it. Special thanks to my Wonderful first Reviewers!

Note: This chapter has a bit of dub-con/non-con due to an over-enthusiastic Alpha (no spoilers!) so tread lightly or do a complete full-stop if that kind of thing bothers you.

Just a note, there will be a bit more of that kind of thing to follow. The Hunt is a pretty wild event, and werewolves can get hands-y with adorable, brown eyed- definitely eighteen and not illegal- young men. But nothing actually traumatizing or angsty. I don't roll that way.

Enjoy!

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><p>After he dropped Scott off at his own home, Stiles went home to get a shower and wash off the over-hanging stench of failure that had been following him around since Jackson humiliated him –Twice!- on the field today.<p>

It wouldn't have been SO bad if only there hadn't been a group of witnesses. Like, really? Any other time Stiles had his ass handed to him was fine. THAT he could get used to. But in front of a whole group of possible scouts? This was his CAREER for God's sake! He needed a damn scholarship! His dad's meager sheriff paycheck was spent trying to keep the house and keep food on the table. That wasn't going to be paying Stile's way through college. Lacrosse was pretty much his only shot for a legitimate chance that didn't lead to massive student debts that he would spend the rest of his life paying off. And jerks like Jackson didn't even need to worry about shit like that. Life really sucked sometimes.

Stiles was just leaving the shower and heading for his room, still berating himself for getting distracted on the field, when he heard the sound of the doorbell.

Who could that be? A glance at the clock showed it was already eight p.m. Stiles made his way down the dimly lit stairs to answer it. His dad was still at work. Would probably not be home for the rest of the night- again. Stiles had almost asked Scott if he just have another super-manly sleepover at his house. It sucked being alone all the time. There was only so much internet a teenage boy could explore. And only so many solo performance sexy times before ideas ran short and bordered on the weird…

When he checked the peep hole, Stiles immediately panicked.

Why the fuck was Jackson at Stiles' house late at night?! Shit, if he came all this way to beat him shitless, Stiles was going to…well, probably bleed and hurt a lot. But, after that, he was going to passive aggressively find ways to ruin the jock-wolf's remaining senior year!

Without opening the door, Stiles called out in a deep voice, trying hopelessly to imitate his father, "Stiles isn't home. And I have a big gun."

"Hilarious. Just…just open the damn door, alright?" Jackson's irritated (and slightly nervous?) voice demanded.

Stiles cringed, but figured that keeping the door shut wasn't going to do too terribly much to keep a werewolf out. Preparing himself for the inevitable pain that was sure to come, Stiles unbolted the door and opened it slowly, just a crack.

"Oh, hey! Jackson! Fancy seeing you here. I'd let you in, but-"

"NO! No- I- I don't need to come in. Really!" His eyes shot worriedly in the direction of the border of the woods nearby. Stiles tried to see what the hell the guy was looking at but Jackson was already speaking hurriedly, biting the words out in a fast flow. "I just wanted to come by and make sure you were good- uh, we are good. You know? I got a little, er, rough on you out on the field today and, you know, wanted to make sure you were feeling alright. You're totally fine, huh? No hard feelings?" He tried to laugh, but the huff of expelled air wheezed out of him almost in a whine.

Stiles' mouth was handing open incredulously. What the-? In his mind, Stiles began combing through every possible shape-shifting entity that could possibly be wearing Jackson right now. Cuz no way was the stuck-up teen wolf ACTUALLY trying to apologize to him. Bullshit flag has been thrown. Not possible.

Jackson (or his crazy doppleganger) was shifting nervously, waiting for an answer. Stiles finally answered him slowly, "Uh…I'm good? I mean, I am now. Scott did the whole 'groping/healing' thing on me, so I'm fine now. Still pissed but-"

"He did what-?! Why would he-?" Jackson's horrified eyes snapped to the woods again. Stiles got annoyed by the guy's weird behavior. He stepped fully outside onto the stoop to get a better look at the woods. Jackson began to freak out even more. "Oh, well, that's good news, uh, I guess. Um, it's great that he would, uh, do that for you. Well, have a – a great night then."

And he was gone like a bolt. His car was no where in sight, leading Stiles to believe that he had actually RAN all the way over to Stiles house, just to apologize for being his normal jackass-self. Stiles eyes followed his quickly disappearing form, then turned to squint into the spot in the woods where Jackson had been looking. It was dark. He couldn't see anything in the tree line.

Frowning, Stiles turned back into the house and bolted the door back. Crazy shit like this should be standard operating procedure for Stiles at this point, but somehow the idea of Jackson trying to be nice to him was just way too far outside the scope of reasonable insanity.

Stiles flopped down onto his bed tiredly. Wolves, man. No explaining them. Scott was still pretty awesome, aside from the whole 'my girlfriend is a hunter and that totally doesn't make our relationship weird or anything' deal. But the others? Total nut-cases. Jackson was bad enough before the bite. After? Nightmare. Boyd? Quiet and reasonable. After? Quiet and slightly menacing. Erica? Completely forgettable. After? Terrifyingly hot and scary. Isaac? Shy and aloof. After? Crazy-outgoing.

And don't even start on Derek Hale. Stiles had no idea what Derek was like when he was younger, but he knew that the dude had been born a werewolf. Did that mean the super-scary, scowling man had ALWAYS been like that? Stiles tried to picture a the sour-wolf as a toddler. That would be…adorable? Yikes.

Stiles huffed a sigh. Derek was, like, the epitome of all things wolfy and terrifying. If they had an award for wolfiest- werewolf ever, Derek Hale would be walking around with a medal around his neck 24/7. The guy was all sharp teeth and deadly hotness. Yeah- hotness. Because even with the constant aura of deadly threat that seeped from the man, even Stiles had to admit, DAMN. The guy was built like a Greek God! Ancient sculptors failed to achieve what Mother Nature bestowed upon Derek Hale. He was a fucking masterpiece of male perfection!

It was disgusting.

Guys like Derek shouldn't be allowed to interact with the rest of the world. They should be separated, put into glass cages, and people like Stiles would pay massive amounts of money to come in and just stare freely.

AND he was a WEREWOLF! On top of all that perfectly sculpted muscle and penetrating, heavy-browed green eyes, he was a dark, tortured creature of the night!

It shouldn't be allowed. When guys with that much uninhibited sexual energy were free to walk amongst normal people, it caused huge, epic-level catastrophes. Namely, mortifyingly graphic and wonderful sex dreams for certain healthy, women-loving teen boys.

If Stiles woke up ONE more time half-way through an orgasm courtesy of Dream-Derek, he was going to have to avoid the man for the rest of eternity! It was bad enough that Stiles had to keep his horniness in check whenever the dude was around- thank you SO much super-werewolf senses. But, now there were completely unwelcome wet dreams starring the permanently pissed werewolf sex god holding Stiles down on a myriad of flat surfaces, pressing him up against vertical surfaces, touching very personal, sensitive horizontal AND vertical surfaces!

Stiles caught himself just in time to stop his hand from slipping past the waistband of his pajama pants.

NO! Bad Stiles! We do NOT have sexy times when thinking about Derek, damn it! Geez!

He pulled his hand back up to rest on his stomach, urging his erection back down unsuccessfully.

Shit. This is exactly what happens when you make it eighteen years and STILL have not gotten laid. EVERYONE becomes a possible candidate! How the hell he had landed on Derek Hale as the feature presentation for his fantasies there was no telling. But, seriously, WHAT THE FUCK?!

Stiles groaned angrily, tossing a hand out to flip his lamp off and flop onto his stomach. He needed to sleep. Clearly Scott's magic hands only worked to heal physical problems. If only there was a way to erase mental ones- like permanently ousting unhealthy lustful thoughts of broody werewolves, with their magnificent jawlines and coarse, strong hands….

Stiles drifted off with a frown as his mind wandered to all the fantastic places hands like those could graze over.

…-^o^-…

The wolf was restless, growling and snapping under Derek's skin.

It hungered.

Needed.

Wanted.

Lusted.

Fought for control- for the reins that Derek held tightly, keeping the wolf in check.

The long-standing battle was exhausting on both Derek and his other half. It had been going on for so long, but only lately was the toll really being taken on him.

He stared from the safety of the forest up at the now dark window. He could hear Stiles' heartbeat steadying as he drifted to sleep. The slow thumping was a blessed change from the strong beat of just minutes before.

Derek had been standing there in the cool silence of the woods with dread as his wolf howled inside him hungrily. They waited together, listening, with ears tuned towards the second floor bedroom. They heard the creak of the bed and rustle of sheets. The quickening of a heartbeat.

Would he do it again tonight? Would Stiles touch himself again?

They stood in the shadows, anticipation building with the increasing rhythm of Stiles beating heart.

**Soon**… The wolf was already writhing inside him, ears reaching eagerly to catch the first hitch of breath. The first low moan that escaped the young man's lips.

Derek allowed the excitement to build within him. No use trying to keep the wolf from basking in the stifled sounds that floated through the thin walls of the house. It would just be a waste of energy. Energy that Derek needed to conserve in order to fight the wolf's more ardent demands. To enter the house. To touch the young man. To take him and _own_ those delicious grunts and keening moans.

**Mine**… The wolf was pulsing with heat and need, pressing against Derek's mind and skin to find a weak spot. A chance to break free and take action as it wished.

Derek slammed it back down harshly.

But, to Derek's relief and the wolf's fury, the light cut off, and the rapid beat of the young man's heart slowed.

Derek released a grateful breath as the wolf retreated bitterly.

It was getting worse. Harder to fight. The wolf's strength seemed to be growing with each day that Derek held it back.

Prevented it from claiming the young man.

From taking its mate.

He repeated this torture, hiding outside Stiles' house and listening like a common voyeur, just to keep the wolf sated for another day. To keep it from breaking free and finally letting itself loose on the boy.

That couldn't be allowed.

Stiles was… a vulnerability. An unexpected and unwanted weakness.

Derek could not HAVE such a gaping whole in his armor. If it was discovered…

The absurdity of the situation was almost embarrassing.

Stiles? Really?

Of ALL the scenarios and imaginings that had played out in Derek's mind through out his life, NEVER had he considered that his mate would be…

Stiles Stilinski.

But it wasn't even a question. Not anymore.

At first, Derek had been able to deny it. To scoff at himself for the seemingly ridiculous behavior of his wolf around the young man. This scrawny, spastic, loud-mouthed human boy? This was the wolf's choice?

No. It wouldn't be allowed. Look at how weak the boy is. Look at how silly and helpless. He would never make a good mate. There is nothing worthy in him. See how he talks to us, mocks us. He will not do.

Choose another.

But the wolf had stayed intent on Stiles. Never wavered. Just watched and bided its time from its place inside Derek's soul, watching through his eyes and hearing through his ears.

Derek had countered in full force- lashing out at the boy, pushing and shoving at every opportunity to make him leave. To scare him off. Building up the stone-façade of his personality to keep the boy out. If the boy disdained him, the wolf would have no choice but to seek another.

Then it had all backfired in spectacular Stiles-fashion.

Stiles hadn't backed down from Derek's ferocious attacks against him. He rallied. Pushed back. Challenged.

And then, likely just to spite Derek's efforts, Stiles had changed.

The skinny, defenseless boy that had near-debilitating panic attacks at the slightest mention of monsters or pain evolved into the lithe-framed man who charged in full-force towards danger, facing off against supernatural forces that should have sent him cowering.

He became a hunter. A brilliant tactician. An ally who stood beside his friends and even Derek without a thought for his own safety.

And the wolf had become more insistent. Hungrier. More desperate and demanding. It had coveted Stiles. Yearned to take the young man more than ever.

And Derek's many arguments against Stiles as a mate had petered out. All that was left for Derek to use against the wolf was reason.

They could not have Stiles, because that would put him in great danger, he argued. Did the wolf want to see the boy hurt? If Stiles was claimed, he could not be hidden. Kept safe. All other werewolves would know of him. Smell their scent on him and know that he was Derek Hale's. He would be put at great risk.

And he could not have his normal life anymore. He could not live out his dreams. Go to college. Marry a woman. Have a family.

No, claiming him would be a mistake. It would ruin his life. He would hate them. Did the wolf want that? To be hated by Stiles?

The wolf had protested weakly, but shrunk back. It would keep it's head down, it's needs and desires at bay. It would content itself with these late-night visits where it watched from the shadows and whimpered with want.

It would not put Stiles at risk.

A small, hard-won victory for Derek.

And if he had to repeat the reasons to himself repeatedly, and force himself to avoid the young man, glare at him and insist that he was useless, then that was fine.

Even if it wasn't all just for the wolf's benefit, but his own. He would never admit it. Never accept it.

Stiles could not be his, even if he was a great hunter. And smart. And weirdly funny. And had incredibly deep, brown pools for eyes that Derek felt like he could drown in.

Even if Derek did LIKE Stiles, he was stronger than his wolf. He could fight it.

Derek pulled himself away from the window, ignoring the pouting wolf. There was no reason to stay longer. His task was accomplished.

When Isaac had recounted the events of the lacrosse practice to the rest of the small pack, Derek AND his wolf had been livid.

Since Isaac was not in control of his powers yet, it was a reckless to allow him to participate in the practices until he could keep himself from exposing them all. But, he was allowed to watch. It was a solid pretense to have him spy on Stiles while the young beta thought he was just staying up to date with the newest plays and drills. He could attend and watch, but he must stay out of sight. He must practice his scent masking in the process. Not let Jackson or Scott sense that he was there. Those were the rules.

Isaac had accepted the policy easily, and Derek was able to keep an eye on Stiles.

However, when Derek heard Isaac detail Jackson's attack on Stiles, his composure slipped. He was on his feet with Isaac shoved against the nearest wall. His wolf was ready to tear the boy's throat out, then seek out Jackson to do the same. Derek kept him in check, instead grinding out, "And you did not stay to see if Stiles was injured?"

Isaac stared at Derek, terrified as the others watched on in equal fear. "I-I saw him get up. He looked okay. I mean- I'm pretty sure he was. He was yelling at Jackson and stuff so-"

Derek shoved Isaac away angrily, trying to calm himself. Stiles was fine. THIS TIME. Next time, though...? He growled lowly. Jackson would not be allowed to continue harming (**my**) Stiles. Derek felt the wolf pushing his claim of ownership into his thoughts. He forced it back down.

Jackson would be dealt with- immediately.

After just a small amount of threatening and healthy pain, Jackson had enthusiastically agreed to go apologize to Stiles.

It may have looked suspicious, to Jackson and to Derek's pack, but he didn't care. There was nothing to suggest that he wanted to claim the boy. Derek had made SURE of that. He kept his scent masked, preventing the heady air of lust from being picked up. He stayed far from Stiles to keep his scent off the young man at all times. He barely acknowledged him when they were forced into situations where they HAD to be around each other. And even then, he made sure he radiated distaste and annoyance so no one would suspect anything. An outside observer was sure to think he had no interest in the boy.

Which was exactly what he wanted. Not just to keep the secret from the pack, but also from the others.

Although it was unlikely that any other Hale Pack members or wolves from the other families would dare cross into the territory that Derek had marked off as his own, he still wouldn't risk it. He was already being scrutinized by the the heads of the other families for his decision to eschew The Hunt for a third year in a row. The Hale Pack was being led by Peter, largely disliked and now a mere bata, which would not go over well much longer. The Board may take action.

The Hunt was paramount. It was the deciding factor for practically all politics among the werewolf families, not just in the U.S., but all over the world. Families fell, new pack leaders rose, feuds were concluded, and mates were selected from amongst the participants. It was a massive battle royal played out over the course of one full moon's night each year. Wolves were freed completely to act out their natural inclinations with the only repercussions being that ANYTHING that happens during The Hunt stands.

As the heir-apparent of one of the largest wolf packs in the U.S., Derek was making a very public statement by laying low in Beacon Hills and keeping his own beta's away from the other wolves.

He did it partially because he wanted nothing to do with leading the enormous Hale Pack. He shouldn't have even been in line for it. But, after the fire that destroyed most of the real heirs, only Laura stood between him and the position. Then, Peter had killed her- his own niece- during The Hunt and claimed her Alpha power, forcing Derek to chase after him and put his sister's body to rest properly close to where their family had died in the small city of Beacon Hills.

But, of course, an entire fiasco had unfolded at that point.

Peter bit Scott. Derek's wolf discovered Stiles. Kate Argent- the she-bitch from Hell- reappeared. Derek became the Alpha, sending a petulant Peter scurrying back to join the rest of Hale pack. Then shortly after he found himself called in front of the Board and being ordered to establish his authority as soon as possible.

So, naturally, he ditched them. Let Peter deal with them. He actually LIKED the attention. Derek wanted nothing to do with it.

As if somehow knowing what Derek was thinking, his phone began to buzz, indicating a call from none other than Peter, himself.

"What?" Derek bit out, casting a final glance back at Stiles distant window before entering the forest and making his way home where his pack waited.

"Oh, come on. What kind of greeting is that?" Peter's smug voice asked.

"I will hang up, Peter." Derek threatened. He already suspected that his uncle would call to insist he attend The Hunt. Derek was already prepared for it. "I am not attending The Hunt. Don't bother asking."

"Easy, now. As it turns out, I already assumed you wouldn't. No skin off my back there- literally. I wouldn't want my wolf trying to attack you and get my Alpha powers back, as it is. The odds wouldn't exactly be in my favor."

"Then what could you possibly want the day before The Hunt? You want me to wish you good luck?"

"That hurts. As a matter of fact, although 'I' don't particularly want you at The Hunt, others are not as accepting. You should know that the Board is unhappy, as are the heads of many families, including several leaders inside our own Hale pack."

"I think I'll survive their disapproval." Derek snapped, slightly uncomfortable at the amount of unrest he was apparently stirring up. It really was pushing it to stay away this long.

"Yes…about that. A little birdie has mentioned to me that the Durst family head is on his way to pay you a visit." Derek felt a chill run through him. The Durst family was one of the most powerful packs in both the U.S. and Europe. The newest Head of the pack was an old friend of his, Mischa. They had grown up together and gotten along fairly well- considering they were from different packs and extremely competitive- until the fire and Derek's self-imposed isolation these last years. "He's coming here- to Beacon Hills?" Where Stiles was. Derek fought for calm, his wolf already rising again to stake his claim on the young man before anyone else could.

"Oh, heaven's no. You marked that whole area off limits. He isn't crazy enough to go there. No- he is apparently in the next county over, waiting to make contact with you. Wants to chat, I imagine."

Derek released a grateful breath that he didn't realize he was holding.

"Fine. I'll meet him and tell him I wont be attending- in person, if that's the only way he'll have it."

"Fabulous!" Peter's grin could be heard through the phone. "I'll send word to him and set up the meeting. You'll need to go immediately, of course. He needs to hurry back to make it in time for the start of The Hunt."

"Whatever. I'll leave right now." Derek agreed. He'd head straight over to meet Mischa and be back by morning. He needed to keep the man from coming into Beacon Hills to seek him out. His wolf would not tolerate another wolf near Stiles. Better to clear this up quickly.

…-^o^-…

"Did you get it?"

"Yes. We would have had it sooner, but he stayed on it for over four hours talking to a female. We had to listen the whole time. It was terrible. I forgot how ridiculous teenage romances can be."

"Did you mask your scent? Are you sure there is no chance of him noticing that you were there?"

"Yes, sir. He is still a pup. Poorly trained, at that. He is already asleep and will not notice the cell phone is missing until morning."

"…Good. We need as much of a head start as possible. As we speak, Peter Hale has lured Derek away. We will make our move now, and be at the High-Den by noon tomorrow with our cargo."

The rest of the group appeared from the forest, light steps barely making a sound as they moved closer in the darkness. The gleam of their eyes caught the nearly full moon reflection.

"Send the message. Everyone take their positions and prepare to move out as soon as the boy is in hand. Go."

"Yes, Mischa!" Came the obedient chorus of voices around him.

And without any further words, they went- swift shadows rushing across the field towards the dark, empty high school in the distance.

…-^o^-…

'GO GO POWER RANGERS! Dunduh dun dun dun dunduh. GO GO POWER RANGERS! YOU MIGHTY MORPH-'

"EUUAAARRGGG-!" Stile threw his hand out towards the noise, slamming his fist into his nightstand lamp and sending it crashing loudly to the floor.

Fumbling hastily, his eyes glued shut from sleep, he finally managed to grab onto his cell phone and silence it.

"-the fuck?!" He groaned, squinting his eyes to peer at the bright screen.

It was a text from his (suddenly not nearly as awesome) bestie best friend.

GREAT SCOTT!: Emergency! Meet us at the school immediately. Everyone is here.

Stiles stared at the text, waiting for his brain to shift from being pressed against a wall and licked from his ear down to his-

-Uh, yeah…from his dreams about a certain broody-wolf who- for the love of GOD- needed to stop dropping into his dreams and wreaking homo-erotic havoc!

Stiles tried to shake the image from his mind and focus. So, Scott and the other were at the school? At one a.m. in the morning? Geez, he needed to associate with people who understood the meaning of 'working hours'!

With only a minimal amount of groaning and muttered curses, Stiles managed to get dressed and into jeep in under five minutes.

Because he was awesome and his friends had damn-sure better appreciate the sacrifices he makes for them.

…-^o^-…

Stiles parked his jeep a short distance from the school vocational hall, unsure what kind of threat he should be prepared for and definitely not wanting to draws it's attention to him. From his spot, he could make out the Men's Bathroom window, or as Stiles and the others were apt to call it, Old Faithful. The window had a broken latch for years, a well-kept and passed down secret from seniors to freshmen as part of the Beacon Hills High tradition. It had served the gang well in the past, particularly when being chased by Generic Evil Monster #'s 1 through two hundred, or whatever the hell they were on now.

The question was- where the hell was everybody? Inside or out?

Stiles scanned the the buildings quickly as he ducked out of the jeep. Scott's text had said meet them AT the school. What the hell did they mean? Leave it to the dude to be as vague as possible at the most inopportune times. Then again- fleeing for your life while texting with razor sharp werewolf claws probably didn't make for easy going.

Actually- wait. Stiles came to a stop just outside Old faithful, crouched low. With a frown, he pulled his cell out and reread the text from Scott.

Grammar? Punctuation? Correct spelling?

Scott DID NOT send the message.

"Stiles Stilinski."

A low, powerful sounding voice sent a shudder down Stiles' spine. He turned with slow horror in the direction it came from.

His eyes fell upon the massive form of a man standing just a short distance from him, beside his jeep. At first, in the dim lighting of the street lamps, the bulky silhouette looked almost like Derek. But the voice was about ten shades less nice than Derek's and the faint features of the face that were visible seemed significantly sharper and more serious (breaking Stiles commonly accepted belief that Derek was the master of the Sour-face).

Stiles' entire focus was so intent on the man who spoke his name, that it was several seconds before he realized that he was being surrounded. His back pressed against the brick wall as his eyes darted around the menacing figures closing in around him. He had just enough wherewithal to make the connection between the looming faces and the suspicious crowd that had been scoping out the lacrosse practice earlier. Not good…

The mysterious man spoke again, his voice rolling out from his mouth closer to a bark than words. "Your presence has been requested at the High-Den. You will come with us- quietly."

Witty retort- come on, spit it out. Something. Anything! Buy time with sarcasm, or at least don't scream like a petrified man-child!

Stiles eyes finally locked- against his will- with those of the shadowed man's icy blue ones and an almost paralyzing, cold horror seemed to shoot through all of his veins. Luckily, it really was 'almost' paralyzing, because despite his words freezing in the face of his imminent doom, Stiles' body had zero difficulty taking action.

It reacted so fast that even HE was stunned when he darted over and into Old Faithful's small opening, slamming into the glass and feeling it give way to dump him onto the tiled floor in a heap.

The air being knocked out of him was like a shot of adrenaline to his system, kicking his brain back on. He was up on his feet with his first deep inhale, and out the restroom door by the exhale.

Suddenly, the familiar sound of infuriated howls filled the silence, reverberating off of all the surfaces around him. Holy fuck was he EVER sick of werewolves! OF COURSE they were werewolves! No chance that a biker gang or opposing lacrosse team would decide to corner Stiles and make cryptic threats- Oh, no! Where was the fun in that?!

His sneakered feet echoed loudly off the walls and lockers as he sprinted down the dark hallway. When he was rounding his first corner, he heard the heavy thud of the bathroom door bursting open behind him. Shit, they were fast! He had been hoping that their bulky bodies would be slowed by the small frame of the window. No such luck! Not for Ole Stiles. How in THE HELL was he supposed to outrun werewolves in narrow school hallways?! Why didn't contractor and architects exercise just a little bit more practicality when designing these death-traps!?

He needed to think quick! He had the advantage here! He knew every nook and cranny of this place, and- somehow as an upside for once!- this was actually NOT his first time being chased up and down these halls by insane homicidal supernatural entities.

He swung a quick right around another corner and shouldered his way through the heavy cafeteria doors. Skidding hard to come to a stop, he slid on his side a few feet and bounced up. Grabbing the nearest cafeteria chair, he flew to the doors to shove the metal legs of the chair into the bars, sealing them.

Just in time, too. A heavy crash caused the double doors to shudder on their frames and noticeably bend the legs of the chair. An angry whine of pain followed by a threatening growl sounded on the other side of the door, but THANK GOD they held firm. Okay, point one for school designers. But they're still in the negatives as far as Stiles was concerned.

"Ohoho! That sounded painful! Maybe now'd be a good time to scurry off and lick your wounds, huh?" Stiles chirped happily, as he began digging his phone from his pocket to call in reinforcements.

Then sound of several more- deeper- growls rumbled from the other side and suddenly the doors almost split from the force of a heavy blow.

Stiles' smug grin dropped fast as he instantly hopped nimbly over tables and chairs making for the far exit.

Terrible idea! Don't insult the crocodiles until AFTER you've crossed the river! ShitShitShitShitSHIT!

A loud crashing sound from the direction of the doors that lead outside the building indicated that more wolves had broken the locked chains that secured those exits. A slam and the sound of panting growls was all the motivation Stiles needed to cover the remaining twenty feet to the doors in front of him in record time. He crashed through them hard, landing with a painful THUMP! against the lockers across the wall. Ricocheting off them with a new burst of energy drawn from fear and the sounds of tables being upended behind him, he scampered from the noises.

He bolted fast to the stairwell, praying his legs didn't fail him as he took them three at a time up to the second floor. He arrived on wobbling legs to the Freshmen Hall and moved fast for the opposite side of the building. If he could make it to the far stairwell, he take it down to the basement. The boiler room had thick doors- point two school designers. From there he could hole up and call for help.

His breaths came out as shallow gasps as he continued through the halls a full speed. Thank GOD coach's go-to punishment was suicide runs! Stiles knew he would be a heaping pile of wheezing wolf-bait by now if he hadn't trained so hard. He was never going to ever gripe about sprints again. Hell! If he survived this, he was going to volunteer to do them every chance he got! And he was going to give coach a huge, sloppy, grateful kiss for hating him so much!

He made it to his final turn, feet sliding as he lost tread and ate shit hard on the floor. Unfazed, Stiles shoved himself up and attempted to build back up his momentum to reach the far end of the hall, where the stairwell sat practically bathed in a holy ray of angelic light.

He could hear more howling, more panting, and running feet back in the direction he had come. They were gaining on him fast.

The sound of shattering glass came from a room somewhere nearby, and almost immediately after a door fifteen feet ahead of Stiles crashed open as three enormous, furry bodies exploded into his path, golden eyes locking onto him instantly.

Almost without thinking, Stiles tucked his head and hunched his shoulders, letting his momentum drive him solidly into the first dense mountain of a werewolf that was in his way. To his surprise- and apparently all three of the werewolves, as well- the force of his tackle knocked the first one off his feet, slamming the huge body hard into the others. Taking advantage of his sudden element of surprise (or shock, judging by the incredulous looks on the wolves faces) Stiles stiff-armed the second wolf, feeling the extremely satisfying crunch of a nose- snout?- breaking under his hand. He kept his arm extended and tight, as he brought his feet down, stomping heavily on the first wolf's stomach then throat, and pushing forward past his prone body to clothes-line the last wolf. He went down with a choked cough and an 'UMPH!'.

Stiles felt a exhilarating rush of pure awesomeness pump through him as he turned momentarily to glimpse the wreckage he had left in his wake. He briefly wondered in his euphoric state if this was anything like how Jackson felt during lacrosse matches as he barreled over competitors.

Stiles couldn't help but smile at the sight of the huge, manly, wolfed out figures doubled over in pain and confusion where they lay on the floor. But his victory was short-lived as an entire stream of werewolves flooded around the far corner and howled with frenzied rage at the sight of their fallen brethren. The same brethren who were now rolling back onto their feet-FUCK YOU VERY MUCH SUPER-SPEEDY HEALING POWERS!

Stiles decided to screw personal-safety in the overwhelming shadow of an impending bloody demise, and jumped down the bank of stairs, hitting the next landing down with an ankle-crushing thump that he ignored as he repeated the process on each remaining landing. He sent up a short, but nonetheless sincere, prayer of gratitude when he toppled onto the basement level with no apparent broken bones.

The hallway was bathed in a red glow from the filtered lights, making it difficult to see. Luckily, Stiles had been down here enough times to move confidently and swiftly through the narrow paths and around sharp-edged equipment. The mechanical gear was loud, and the further he went, the more steam hissed and obscured his vision. He couldn't tell if he was still being followed by the angry pack.

The Boiler room was just up ahead, the metal-grated door a beautiful sight to Stiles aching chest and sore muscles. He picked up speed, ignoring the pain as his arms and shoulders slammed into valves and pipes he could barely see. He was so close-!

From just past the Boiler room door, in the direction of the back hallway and the old locker rooms, two small beams of red light appeared in the steam mist.

The beams became brighter as a dark shape began to emerge.

Stiles flung his arms out, hitting multiple metal casings and pipes painfully, but effectively stopping himself from getting any closer to beast.

Over the rattling and hissing of the gear, the unmistakeable sounds of howling echoed along the passageway behind him. FuckingFuckityFuck-!

An even more close and threatening growl resonated from the figure in front of him, red eyes boring into him as it slunk closer, crouched and ready to pounce.

He was trapped.

He was going to die in the damn creepy-ass boiler room, for Fuck's sake! Never had a ghost been forced to haunt a more pathetic and unseemly location since Moaning Myrtle. Stiles was going to be stuck pulling trite ghost parlor tricks and the damn janitor for eternity!

Gasping for breath and pulling all his remaining strength together, Stiles shouted an angry curse just as the dark figure charged him and pounced.

Stiles pitched himself backwards, allowing his feet to swing up with as much energy as he could muster. His upper back and shoulders hit the concrete floor as his feet caught the creature in it's soft underbelly. He continued rolling backwards, sending the heavy form flying helplessly over his body.

He felt the brief rake of claws trying to grip onto his shirt and arms before they were gone and the sound of two hundred-plus pounds of angry, squawking werewolf collided with steel piping behind him.

Stiles rolled himself up, aching shoulder sending bolts of near-crippling pain through him. He stumbled from the pain, feeling light-headed and nauseous for a moment as he sucked in the damp, hot air.

A furious, blood-curdling howl ripped through the room and rattled everything. Stiles winced from the proximity, his ears ringing painfully.

If ever there was a motivation to run like hell, Stiles was SURE that was it.

He threw himself at the Boiler room door, shaking hands fumbling to open it as he expected to feel sharp claws shredding into his back at any moment.

The heavy door creaked open-

-just as an enormous clawed hand grabbed his shoulder and dug in tight.

Stiles felt that entire side of his body give under the clenching pressure. He was yanked backwards as if he weighed nothing and spun around to be thrown bodily into the grating of the door, slamming it shut again.

His vision was suddenly full of hair, sharp teeth, and a penetrating red stare. The werewolf's huffing breaths brushed warm heat across his sweating face as their eyes met again under the dim red lights.

Stiles winced as the pressure on his shoulder increased and a second, huge hand gripped his free arm tightly, pinning him to the door.

A low growl started somewhere deep in the creature's throat and worked it way up and out of it's mouth.

Stiles heard himself choke out a whimper, body shuddering with fear. His legs- apparently the only part of his body that could operate under extreme terror, kick out furiously, aiming for a solid strike to the groin because fighting fair was OFF the table when a werewolf's jagged teeth were only inches from your jugular.

He felt his feet making contact with the werewolf's but apparently did not successfully fall on his most sensitive region. It was, however, a good enough effort to further infuriate to beast in front of him. His grip tightened to the point that Stiles was sure his bones were going to be crushed to powder. He cried out, a pain-wracked shout that melted uselessly into the loud den of the air.

To his surprise, the werewolf seems startled by the yell, the grip on him immediately loosening.

Stiles sucked in a deep breath, and tried for one final, desperate Hail Mary.

He stretched his neck forward, opened his mouth wide, and sank his teeth into the werewolf's collar.

The creature shot backwards so suddenly that he pulled Stiles with him, still attached by the teeth.

Releasing his mouth, Stiles had just enough time to take a step back, and kick his leg forward as hard as humanly possible into the vicinity of the creature's gut.

The werewolf dropped to his knees hard, then pitched forward with an almost humorous sound erupting from his lips.

But Stiles was already hauling ass away from the doubled-over form, and down the hall in the direction of the old locker rooms. Screw the Boiler room- he'd never get inside with the werewolf crumpled in front of the door and the flickering shadows of the others already arriving where he lay.

He needed to get the hell out! Surely they were all inside the school by now?! He wasn't exactly going to run back for a head-count, but there was a very good chance that his jeep was unguarded at this point and THAT was his best chance of survival. If he could just get to a window and make it outside…

He burst into the old locker room and and hopped up onto the bench by the wall in one fluid movement. To his everlasting horror, his hands were shaking so badly that he couldn't swing the window latch open. Every precious second was counted off by the rapid pounding of his heart in his throat. He imagined he could hear the fast patter of feet closing in on him down the hall outside the door. He cursed his useless hands for failing him at such a critical moment.

Worse, the insidious thoughts were already beginning pour in, distracting him.

He almost just died.

AND he pissed off LOTS of fucking werewolves!

AND he REALLY pissed off a fucking ALPHA!

He had BIT the thing!

MY GOD-! I BIT AN ALPHA! I seriously NO SHIT bit an Alpha! Like I'm a-a wild animal or- or something! I BIT HIM!

OHMYGODHE'SGONNAKILLMEHANDSSTOPTRYINGTOGETMEKILLEDANDWORKDAMNIT-!

Stiles clutched the piece of rusty metal and yanked it like his life depended on it- BECAUSE HOLY FUCK- IT DID!- and the latch suddenly snapped off in his hand. Stiles threw it to the ground and half-shimmied, half-jumped up and out the high window.

He landed ungracefully on the ground just two feet under the basement-level window and sprung to his feet to bail-

-only to have his trembling legs give out underneath him, pitching him forward. He gave his heaving body only a second to recover before trying again.

This time his legs, though numb and wobbly, managed to support him. He took long strides towards the corner of the building, trying to figure out the fastest way to his jeep from where he was.

The sound of shattering glass behind him told him it would be TOO far.

He didn't even have a chance to spin around and SEE the creature before he felt two huge, strong arms wrapping themselves tightly around his thin frame and dragging him roughly to the damp ground. His entire body was crushed between the hard, grassy surface and the bruising weight pressing heavily into his back.

A rumbling growl sounded only an inch from Stiles ear and he knew it was over.

He had nothing left.

His breath was choking gasps that he just couldn't seem to get enough of.

Every inch of his body ached.

His muscles were over-exerted and he KNEW he wasn't going to be able to run ten more steps, even if he had the chance.

The lack of air was exacerbated by the weight on top of, completely preventing his brain from processing anything more than the fact that he couldn't breath. He could feel darkness edging his vision, closing around him as his brain buzzed weakly.

He felt the weight leave. As soon as the air was available he sucked in deep gasping breaths as his lungs burned for more.

He felt himself being flipped onto his back.

His vision cleared slowly, and he was abruptly blinking up into the sharp red eyes of the Alpha again. Hands dug into his arms, though much less roughly than before, and Stiles felt the werewolf shift his body over his own, pinning Stiles to the ground.

With his breathing finally stabilizing, Stiles' brain began working again, sluggishly at first, but speeding up quickly.

The Alpha was still staring intently into his eyes from just inches away, as if watching Stiles closely, following his thoughts as they slowly returned. It's breathing was ragged, much like Stiles' own, and the warm huffing breaths were tickling his face.

The hands on Stiles arms moved slowly, up and down, almost soothingly. At the same time, the Alpha's head dipped lower, it's nose seeming to sniff lightly over Stiles prone form.

It's head dropped lower still, nose rubbing along Stiles' throat, where he was still gasping shallowly.

Suddenly, Stiles felt the sharp drag of teeth ghosting over his throat, sending a jolt through his body as he cringed from the feeling.

The wolf gave a short, but very clear warning growl that froze Stiles in place.

The teeth returned, traveling slowly down the sensitive flesh of his neck to his collar, then back up, where it gave a quick nip just below his ear. Stiles couldn't help but jump at the unexpected twinge of pain, a small, unstoppable whine coming from somewhere inside him.

The wolf made a almost gleeful sound, nipping again, then licking the sharp sting away. The creature suddenly rolled it's hip once, grinding them against Stiles crotch, and forcing a surprised, breathy moan from the young man.

Stiles bit his lips, twisting his neck away from the warm mouth as he began desperately trying to jerk himself free. Even dazed as he was, it was becoming increasingly clear to Stiles that the werewolf on top of him was NOT ripping him to shreds. In fact, he seemed to be taking an entirely different approach.

Unfortunately, his twisting and bucking was only causing the creature to become more excited, judging by the breathy grunts, happy keening sounds, and- oh, yeah- the raging hard on that he was grinding against Stiles.

And he seemed to be taking the sounds coming from Stiles- despite his best efforts to muffle them- as encouragement.

It wasn't that being dry-humped by a heavily-muscled, hairy Alpha was necessarily a turn on. It was just a matter of biology. Stiles was a teenager for God's sake. This was the most action he had gotten from another ANYTHING since his last annual Sports Physical! He couldn't control his reaction- it was just _happening_.

And, as a last little bit of irony, a very similar scenario involving a different muscular Alpha dominating him had very recently played out in his dreams.

So, if Stiles happened to become disoriented from the rocking thrusts and silky-smooth mouth gliding over his soft throat, it was completely reasonable and acceptable and fuck anybody that was judging him becauseshititfeltsogoodandwaswaybetterthanaslowandpainfuldeath-!

"Mischa! Stop at once!" A loud voice cut through Stiles' fuzzy thoughts like a knife. He opened his eyes- when the hell did he close them?!- and saw several worried looking faces staring at them from a safe distance away, shuffling around nervously as if they wanted to do something, but were not going to be the stupid person who actually DID. Stiles couldn't see the speaker from where he lay with his head turned. The werewolf on top of him lifted it's head, just barely, to growl a low warning before returning with renewed vigor to Stiles neck. The voice sounded desperate as it tried again, "MISCHA! You must get off that young man! This is not the time or place to stake your claim! If Derek Hale finds out-"

Stiles eyes widened at Derek's name, his mind clearing suddenly.

Derek-! If Derek finds out..what? That Stiles was- was practically sprinting to third base with a werewolf that hadn't even bought him dinner yet?! Holy shit-! What the hell was happening!? A werewolf – a GUY/MALE/DUDE/PENIS-POSSESSING MAN- was NO SHIT on top of him getting freaky, and he was LETTING HIM. Not to mention already sporting an obvious and embarrassing erection as a result!

If dying from embarrassment was possible, it would happen right now. And it would be SO welcome.

Panic helped gives Stiles a sudden burst of strength, which he used to shove forcefully against the strong arms and heavy chest holding him in place.

Which had absolutely no effect. Unless you counted really pissing the dude off. The wolf pulled back with a grunt to stare at him again, and Stiles thought he saw something close to hurt in the glowing red eyes.

And then the weight abruptly lifted from him, and the very hairy, terrifying face changed into a much less scary face that was nonetheless threatening and furious. The red eyes faded to their previous bright shade of blue.

Stiles was so stunned by the man's actions, by what had just happened, and by the entire horrifying situation that he didn't move an inch from where he lay on the ground, gaping.

The large group that was circled around them didn't make a sound, their wide eyes all on the Alpha as he shook his head, almost like he was trying to clear it.

Finally, several deathly-silent moments later, the Alpha lifted his eyes, sharp blue glaring accusingly at Stiles, and he bit out, "Take him to the van. NOW. We are leaving at once!"

And that furious, steely glare was the last thing Stiles saw before everything went black.

* * *

><p>Whew! That's a long one. I said this would be short and, damn it, that's still the plan!<p>

I just got a bit carried away with this one. Let me know if the characters are still on point and the story isn't taking a nose-dive, please. Thanks!


	3. Chapter 3

Thanks so much for the Reviews, Favs and Follows. I'm still having a lot fun, so I'm glad you all are as well! Don't hesitate to point out stuff that looks weird or wrong- I may confuse my Werewolf universes with other shows or movies. Keep me honest, please. I'm trying to stick as close to the TW universe as possible in the AS.

Note: **Bold font** is when the inner-wolf is in control and speaking. ; )

Otherwise, just have fun with it!

* * *

><p>Peter let his phone ring several times before answering. He checked his clock.<p>

Just after nine a.m. in Beacon Hills. Right on time.

"Hel-"

A furious howl resonated painfully loud on the other end of the line.

Sigh. "Derek, you KNOW I can't understand you when you growl into the phone like that." He tried to keep the smirk out of his voice.

**'YOU-! WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH HIM?!'**

Another sigh. "I assume you are referring to Stiles?"

**'GGRRRRAAAAHHHHHRRRGGGG-!'**

"Don't you take that tone with me, nephew. This is your own fault. We had to do SOMETHING to get you out here."

**'GGGRRRRRRAAAHH- I'LL KILL'M AND YOU-! ALL OF THEM-! RIP MISCHA TO SHREDS-!'**

In the background, he heard Isaac's soothing voice, _'Please, you need to relax. Someone is going to see you wolfed out Derek!'_

And an obnoxiously earnest voice he recognized as Scott's, _'Ask him about Stiles! Does he know where he is?'_

Peter muffled a chuckled, and tried to sound disapproving, "Well, that's a bit excessive. Really, Derek, they were all just following the Board's orders. Stiles will be fine. He should be arriving in a little-"

**'AARRGGGHHH- THE BOARD HAS NO RIGHT-! THEY DARE ALLOW MISCHA TO TOUCH WHAT IS MINE- I'LL KILL'M ALL!'**

_'Derek, seriously- you have to calm down,'_ came Isaac's urgent voice.

"Yes, Derek. Calm yourself. They just pulled a quick grab and go. No one is actually going to make a move on your little not-so-secret crush. He's fine-"

**'MISCHA'S SCENT IS EVERYWHERE! MIXED WITH STILES' AND- AAAGGGRRRHH- HE TOUCHED WHAT IS MINE- HE WILL DIE-!'**

Peter's face dropped from a grin into a confused frown. "What are you talking about? You're saying you smell Mischa mixed with Stiles? Why is that so upsetting? He had to-"

**'EVERYWHERE! ALL OVER THE GROUND! HE TOUCHED HIM! HE TRIED TO CLAIM WHAT IS MINE-! AAARRRGGHHHAAAHH-'**

Erica's voice this time, clearly panicking, _'Oh my God- just knock him out before someone in the school looks out one of the windows and sees him!'_

Boyd answered her, flustered, _'We can't- Uh!- just knock- ow!- him out!'_

_'Why not? You want him to be seen by half the damn school?'_ Erica hissed.

_'She's right,_' Peter recognized the voice of Allison Argent. So, they were still slumming it with hunters? Pathetic, really. The girl continued, _'I think I have some wolfsbane in my backpack. Maybe we can use it to sedate him for a while?'_

The sound of Derek's low warning growl and Boyd's pained grunts told Peter that the idea had not been received well by his nephew.

_'I'm with Boyd on this,_' Isaac's voice stated, _'The problem is that eventually he will REGAIN consciousness and probably kill us. But we need to do something… Here-! Erica help us hold him down! Scott, get the phone from him!'_

There was several seconds of static fuzz, thumping, and muffled voices before Scott's voice came from the phone.

_'Peter- where the hell is Stiles?! What have you done with him?!'_

In the background was the pained whines and furious growls of Derek mingled with the shuffling and panting of the others as they apparently tried to hold him down, away from the phone.

"No- hold on a second- what did Derek mean about the scents? Are you where he was picked up? What can you smell?" Peter almost growled.

_'Yeah, we're at the school!'_ Scott's shouted accusingly. _'There's a spot outside- the last place we can smell Stiles. His-his scent is, uh... Yeah….and there's another- um… Th-they smell-'_

"You had better NOT say '_horny_'." Peter bit the word out lowly.

Derek's enraged howl made the phone shrill with feedback. Peter had to hold it away from his sensitive ears, wincing.

_'Er…I was going to say 'lustful'. With, like, a crap-ton of fear mixed in! Peter, what the-'_

"You tell Derek to get his ass to the High-Den- NOW. I've already arranged the jet to be ready at the Beacon Hills Airport." Peter barked the order angrily into the phone, confident his nephew could hear him. "This has just become a huge fucking mess. I'll deal with Mischa Durst as soon as the group arrives here with Stiles."

_'Wait! The high-what?! Where-'_

Peter slammed the phone down, hanging up on the group.

Perfect. Months- hell, years- of planning and it was all teetering dangerously after just one night.

Mischa Durst had a lot of explaining to do.

…-^o^-…

Stiles began to awaken slowly, over several intermittent periods of consciousness.

Each time he was a little less dazed. His vision a little less blurry.

But his brain just couldn't seem to catch up.

As he finally began to fully awake, his groggy mind registered his surroundings slowly.

He was laying down inside a small space. The bumps and swings he felt even with his eyes closed told him it was a vehicle. Big area, because he was laying down flat. Maybe a van.

And he wasn't alone.

There were several voices speaking in low tones around him. Bodies shuffling occasionally.

He made an effort to move his numb body, but couldn't manage it. He may have been tied down. Or just to weak from the drugs to force his muscles into action.

_Drugs_… Had he been drugged with something…?

He tried to recall what was happening. His mind protested, the lightheadedness still clouding everything. There was a very real threat of a massive head-ache on the horizon.

He knew there had been werewolves. Lots and lots of terrifying- fast- werewolves. At the high school. And running. And a pair of glowing red eyes sooo uncomfortably close to his face….

And a less horrifying- but infinitely more embarrassing- public make-out session that he had been entirely too receptive of at the time. With a (cards on the table- _smoking hot_) DUDE. Who was also, inconveniently enough, an Alpha werewolf. But not HIS smoking hot Alpha.

He did have many Derek like traits, however.

Chasing. Check. Growling. Check. Intimidating stare. Check. Tendency to throw Stiles roughly against walls. Check. Body worthy of worship. Double-check.

The fact that two ridiculously sexy Alpha werewolves existed at the same time in the world added fuel to Stiles long-standing argument. It just wasn't _acceptable_! What kind of just and loving God allowed that sort of thing to happen?

Really, no one should be surprised that Stiles had been turned on! Adrenaline, fear, and teenage hormones were to blame, clearly. Now, he just needed to convince himself of that…

Stiles swallowed, a small groan escaping his dry lips. He kept his eyes closed.

"He's starting to wake up. What do you think- give him another dose of chloroform?" A male voice right next to Stiles left side asked quietly.

"No, we're just outside the High-Den now, it looks like. They'll want him conscious when we arrive." Came an answering male voice.

Stiles focused on slowly moving the muscles in his fingers and toes. He would need them if he had an opportunity to escape. Feeling was slowly coming back. He felt an uncomfortable tingling sensation that grew with each passing minute. He wiggled carefully with the rocking of the vehicle, testing for anything tying him down. He seemed to be free- unless being a virtual prisoner in your own body counted.

After just a short amount of time, he felt the vehicle roll to a stop, and heard the sounds of shuffling increase around him.

The dull hum of many voices filled the interior of the van as the doors opened.

And Stiles- remember him? The guy whose brain was drugged up and very confused?- took his chances and flung himself forward, springing for the open doors with every bit of strength he could muster into his stiff limbs.

His entire body landed painfully like a log onto the pavement outside. He flopped uselessly for several moments like a fish out of water before concluding that- Nope- his muscles were NOT in agreement with his mind that they should flee.

He stilled on the ground, breathing deeply to catch his breath for several moments before trying to state casually with his heavy tongue to the many pairs of shoes and bare feet (?) surrounding him, "Whew! Boyee, wath it getting sthuffy in therh! Ugh… litthel helppth-?"

The bright sunlight burned his eyes, but he blinked through the sensation. He couldn't stretch his head up higher than knee level of his captors. And why were there so many now? Who were all these people? And where was he?

After a long, silent pause, a familiar voice, laced with exasperation, spoke from a few feet away. "Alright everyone, show's over. Pick him up and take him inside, please."

Stiles' body stiffened. Part of him wanted to breathe a sigh of relief that Peter Hale was there. The other part of him was screaming loudly that- oh, shit!- Peter Fucking Hale was there. Talk about mixed feelings…

Before Stiles could attempt to form the words 'What the Fuck?', a strong hand was on his arm and Peter's sharp voice cut him off. "NOT YOU, Mischa! Only Hale Pack members will touch him from this point on!" He sounded pissed.

Stiles heard an intake of breaths from the owners of the growing number of shoes and feet in his sight. He felt the hand on his arm clench for a moment, before releasing its grip.

The tension was thick in the air. Stiles fought the urge to fill it with more positive conversation, like 'how about that last football game, huh? Kinda makes you not want to kill teenage boys, right? Anyone?' Instead, he kept his mouth shut and tried not to drool from his numb mouth. Captive, remember? Let the bad guys be as upset as they want-as long as it is not directed at you. You've got bigger problems then social mediation anyway.

But that name, _Mischa_, sparked a memory. Stiles face suddenly began to burn as a hot-flush rushed across it.

That was HIM, wasn't it? Tall, dark and terrifying? The one who-

Two pairs of hands suddenly lifted Stiles helpless body up. He was finally able to see many of the faces of the group surrounding him. His vicious captors. The ruthless enemy forces conspiring with the- almost definitely- evil Peter Hale. Derek's freak-zombie wannabe uncle. Healing was one thing, but rising from the dead? Hell no. Not acceptable no matter what the circumstances. Just, _yikes_!

Stiles' eyes roved hurriedly over the many faces, trying to take in as many identifying details as possible.

Surprisingly, they all looked fairly normal. Well, the ones he recognized as his captors were still just as scary as ever, but there were more faces. More women. A few elderly looking grandparent-types, complete with adorable cardigans. Stiles and the group appeared to be standing in the middle of a city square full of un-terrifying shops and businesses. It was almost anti-climactic. As Stiles was half-dragged by two men into the door of a building a few feet away, he even caught sight of a group of children chasing each other down the street nearby and laughing merrily, the picture of a happy community.

And that would have been perfectly acceptable in Stiles' mind, if three of them were not partially wolfed-out and running on all fours.

Yep. Not in Kansas anymore. _Definitely_.

…-^o^-…

As soon as Stiles was inside the City Hall building, Peter moved fast, coming up dangerously close to Mischa Durst as the growing crowd watched nervously.

"What the HELL do you think you are doing?! Your orders were to pick up Derek's unclaimed mate- not try to claim him for yourself!" Peter bit out lowly, inches from Mischa's unreadable face.

The man stared him down, silent. Around them, more people gasped and several shifted nervously.

"**Answer me, Hurst!**" Peter's eyes glowed as he barked the order.

Mischa remained silent, but his eyes flashed red, indicating his anger at being addressed by the beta wolf. The air practically surged with electricity as the two werewolves began to hunch into striking positions. Eyes flashed, their wolves rising eagerly to the surface.

"**That is enough. You will both control your wolves and your tempers at once.**" The heads of everyone in the crowd, now numbering close to forty spectators from several packs, all ducked at the sound of the voice, necks turned in offering of respect. The two men caught themselves, proffering their necks immediately as well.

The ominous figure of Nicholae Hurst stepped forward to where both Peter and Mischa stood, eyes downcast. Bearing a striking resemblance to his son, Nicholae was older and his eyes glowed non-stop, a constant reminder of his wolf's proximity to the surface of his conscience. The man looked them both over with sharp, glowing blue eyes that never wavered. His permanent frown seemed to deepen.

"**Peter Hale, why are you addressing my son, the Durst pack leader, with such disrespect? I would expect two pack leaders to behave better in front of visitors and guests at this time of year. Explain yourself.**"

Peter kept his eyes downcast and neck exposed as he answered, choosing his words carefully. "Sir," the word was bit out through sharp, extended teeth, "when I asked for Mischa to lead the group to Beacon Hills, I made it VERY clear that Stiles Stilinki was my nephew's chosen mate. That was the whole POINT of the mission. Knowing that, he has STILL chosen to make a public claim on what should be _Derek's_ mate."

Nicholae Hurst was known for his severe and imperturbable demeanor. As a prestigious former pack leader and a member of the Board, he was one of a select few werewolves capable of maintaining his wolf in control more than his human side. He was a fearsome man that rarely ever faltered.

And so, his startled grunt of shock was heard by everyone in the large crowd. Even the children running along the sidewalk, snapped their heads in the direction of the formidable man.

Mischa cringed almost imperceptibly at the sound, but both his father and Peter Hale caught the involuntary gesture.

"**…Mischa,**" Nicholae's voice gave nothing away as all ears in the area perked to hear, "**Is that true? You have finally made an intent to claim?**"

"…yes, sir." Came the slow reply.

Nicholae's eyes bore into his son, who kept his gaze directed at the ground. "**Explain.**"

Mischa spoke in a hushed hurry, not looking up at his father. "We lured him out-"

Yet another shock for all present, Nicholae sucked in a startled breath so abruptly that he choked. "**Hi-him-?" This 'Stiles' is a boy?**"

Mischa's eyes fluttered shut as his face reddened noticeably. "Yes, father." He took a deep breath and continued haltingly, "We attempted to capture him peacefully. He fled. The situation… _escalated_. I allowed my wolf to take control and he- _we_ made a decision."

All eyes widened at the admission. Mischa's father furrowed his brow in deep thought as he watched his son closely.

Peter growled, "_Decision_? It's a _decision_, now? That's not acceptable! You KNOW that young man is my nephew's chosen mate. That's why I sent YOU! YOU of all people should be able to exercise control and respect what belongs to Derek. This is a betrayal."

"The mission was not as simple as expected. AND we were not given sufficient details. By you, Peter Hale. That- that boy led my team on an extensive chase, and took down several of both your pack members and mine! We were not informed that he was capable of resisting against us! **It should have been mentioned beforehand!**" Mischa's voice was like gravel as his eyes flashed red.

"So your response was to roll around with him in the damn grass like a horny pup!? Stake a hasty claim on him? My nephew has gone to the school! He scented your arousal!"

If possible the large group's eyes widened even more, and several jaws dropped. Mischa's face was practically radiating heat from embarrassment. His head stayed down, eyes not meeting anyone else's. The obvious social impropriety of attempting to claim the mate of another was amplified by the status of the wolves involved. The Durst pack leader and the future Hale pack leader were nearly celebrities, some would even equate them to royalty among the packs. A fight for the same mate was big news. That both men had chosen a human male was astounding. Wolves did not discriminate, but it was a shock, nonetheless.

The sound of several low whines from the rest of the group who had gone with Mischa drew their attention. One man spoke up hesitantly, addressing Nicholae, with his eyes low and tone respectful. "Sir. There- there was an extenuating circum-"

Mischa's furious growl cut him off.

His father's answering snarl sent shudders through the crowd and caused Mischa to whimper.

"**You will let him speak!**" Nicholae ordered.

For a moment, it seemed like Mischa would actually challenge his father. Instead, he clenched his hands, extended claws cutting deep, and was silent.

"**Continue!**" Barked Nicholae at the man, eyes still watching his son's behavior carefully.

The man shifted in obvious discomfort before stating hurriedly, "He-he _bit_ him, sir. The boy _bit_ Mischa during the capture. We all saw the mark before it had time to heal." Around the man, several heads were nodding emphatically, supporting his account. "_Er, on the collar, sir._" He whispered the last part, cheeks flushing.

Peter, Nicholae, and the entire crowd gawked at Mischa, searching for some sort of confirmation from the man. No one made a sound. The man's face flushed a darker shade of red and he refused to tear his gaze from the pavement below him.

"Ah… _Okay_-" Peter's manically-cheerful voice suddenly filled the stunned silence as all eyes remained on Mischa's blushing countenance. "So, disclaimer! I probably should have mentioned this from the get-go. Don't know how it slipped my mind, but- Stiles is actually a huge idiot. _Massive_. I mean, no offense to my nephew, but I'm completely serious. The important thing here, is that we keep this in perspective." Peter raised his hands for emphasis, "There is NO WAY that Stiles was intentionally making a sexual advance on Mischa. _None_! BIG misunderstanding!"

"**Silence, Peter.**" Nicholae drawled out, his voice dangerously low while his eyes continued watching his son. "**Intention is one thing, but the wolf will react as it sees fit when it receives a proposition.**" He paused, thoughtfully, before asking, "**So, this 'Stiles' is a young… man?**"

Both Peter and Mischa nodded, eyes down. Nicholae stared at his son, brow still furrowed.

"**Is he of age?**"

Mischa glanced quickly at Peter, who reluctantly answered, "He…he turned eighteen about five months ago, sir."

"**And he has not been claimed by Derek yet? Not even scenting? No collar bites?**"

Both men shook their heads slowly.

Nicholae's stern face was a mask of concentration as he considered all of this. After several tense seconds, his voice rose, addressing not just Peter and Mischa, but the entire collective group listening for his verdict.

"**I speak now on behalf of the Board. If Derek Hale has not taken action to make his claim, then there is enough doubt to question the credibility of it. Therefore, Mischa is a fair contender to make his own claim on the young man. It will be settled by The Hunt this evening. That is ASSUMING Derek Hale makes an appearance to defend his claim.**" He turned to address Peter, "**I am not convinced that there is any evidence, aside from your word Peter Hale, that your nephew has any intention to take the young man as his mate. The circumstances are… suspicious.**" The older man growled out.

Peter appeared flustered at the accusation, but chose wisely to keep his mouth shut.

Mischa finally raised his head and murmured, "Thank you, father."

Nicholae gave him a final searching look, then one short nod of the head, before turning and stepping into the City Hall building.

After casting a sharp parting glare at Mischa, Peter stomped inside after Nicholae to find Stiles.

Mischa was left standing outside, while the crowd erupted into excited chatter around him.

The Durst pack leader and the heir to the Hale pack, both fighting to claim a human BOY?

This was going to be a very exciting Hunt.

…-^o^-…

Peter entered the small room where Stiles was being held for transfer. The young man was still recovering from the drugs, his body leaning sluggishly to the right in his chair, and his head tilted oddly.

When Peter took a seat across from him at the small table in the center of the room, Stiles made an effort to glare at him. It had significantly less impact considering the pathetic state the body was in. But, it appeared his mouth was back in fine working order. "What the fuck, dude!? Where am I?"

Peter just scrutinized the young man for several moments.

This was his nephew's chosen mate. This…

No convenient description came to mind, so Peter settled for 'This _STILES_.'

Just incredible. This ridiculous teenager would be THE MATE of the future Hale Pack Leader.

They were going to be a laughing stock.

That was assuming Mischa did not succeed in claiming him during The Hunt this evening, just five short hours away.

Peter sighed and leaned forward to meet Stiles' angry eyes. "Tell me, Stiles, you _like_ Derek, don't you?"

The boy's face scrunched up at the abrupt question. "…Eh? I- I guess. He's not, like, particularly horrible as far as werewolves go. Practically a saint compared to YOU. I mean- when he isn't threatening to kill me or acting emotionally constipated at least- which is, like, ninety-nine point nine percent of the time… Um, why are we talking about Derek right now? Does all of this have something to do with him?"

Not exactly a heart-wrenching admission of love. Peter tried again, phrasing the words more carefully. "Sorry. I should have been more clear," he drawled, "What I mean is, you would consider him fucking you '_enjoyable_', rig-"

Stiles entire body shot from his seat, then toppled over ungracefully to the floor as Stiles squawked loudly, "Wha-!? No seriously- WHAT the honest and truthful FUCK!? You can't just-! Why would you-? OH-MY-GOD- YOUARESUCHACREEPYPERVERT! What is _wrong_ with you, dude!?"

Peter remained in his seat, eyes on the wiggling form trying to rise on wobbling arms and legs. That was a better response, but still not an emphatic 'yes'. This was going to be a problem. Nothing short of a '_Hell, yes! I love only Derek with all of my heart!_' was going to dissuade Mischa's advances. And that did NOT seem likely to happen before the start of The Hunt.

This would have been a lot easier if Mischa had not become entangled in it. And if his father were not a member of the Board. As the governing body for all werewolves, the Board was the final say in all legal matters amongst the packs. They were also the overseers of The Hunt. And the enforcers for all matters decided by The Hunt. If Mischa claimed Stiles before Derek, then the issue was settled in their minds. _Not good…_

The boy finally managed to clutch the edge of the table and raise himself up enough to flop his torso onto it and catch his breath.

"You see," Peter continued in his same conversational tone, as if he hadn't been interrupted by Stiles' completely transparent outburst of denial, "the problem is that Derek is en route at this very moment to collect you, Stiles. And you should be asking yourself '_Why_' he would drop everything and fly across several states, just for an exasperating teenage boy with a loud mouth."

From where his head was still helplessly tilted flat on the table, Stiles wide brown eyes looked over at Peter. "_Huh_? Derek is coming _here_? To rescue ME? Wh-why?! He _hates_ me!"

Peter frowned with increasing annoyance, but didn't answer. Instead, he asked out loud, "Another good question, that I, _personally_, would LOVE to have answered, is why you thought it prudent to BITE a werewolf you were not acquainted with." His voice was laced with acid, despite his smile.

Stiles gave a sort of full-body shrug from where he was draped across the table, then replied rationally, "Because I didn't want to die in the goddamn _boiler room_! It seemed like an appropriate reaction at the time! How come you get to run around biting people left and right and turning people's best friends into creatures of the night, but I bite one homicidal maniac- who's about to rip my throat out and share my VERY unappetizing corpse with his friends- and suddenly I'm the _bad guy_!? You know, your double-standards are bullsh-"

Peter was already walking to the door. He was developing a headache. How Derek could stand it…

Well, no accounting for taste.

"Hey-hey, _wait_! You still haven't told me what the hell is going on! Where am I? What are you going to do with me?" Stiles rolled himself with difficulty to face the exit and meet Peter's eyes.

Peter gave him a brief smile, flashing white teeth. "You're at the 'High-Den'. The Werewolf Capitol City. You were brought here to be bait for my nephew. At least, that was the plan before you went and ruined everything. As for now? Well, now things get… _interesting_."

He walked out, shutting the door behind him and leaving the teen to panic freely.

Once outside the room, Peter spoke sharply to the two Hale pack men guarding the door. "Transport him to the Commencement Center with all the others," he ordered.

As he began walking down the long corridor he drew up short, and added, "And keep him away from any more Alphas- _just to be safe…._"

...-^o^-…

A pissed off Stiles was 'escorted' back to the large van he had arrived in. With the nearly complete return of his muscle control, Stiles went out of his way to make the burly men's efforts as difficult as possible. Which apparently had no real effect on them.

There was still a lingering crowd standing outside as he was unceremoniously tossed kicking and shouting into the back of the vehicle. Surprisingly his captors seemed more embarrassed to be handling his furiously-convulsive form than he felt about resisting them.

The crowd watched in a hushed silence as he was forced inside.

The doors were closed on him with a loud slam. No windows. No handles to exit from the inside. He was trapped. In the back of a dark van. Being taken to God-only-knows where.

Great! Sure, not being drugged up this time was a good sign, but- _Fuck_! What the hell was going on here?! And what was up with Peter's cryptic words?

There were just way too many questions. Stiles felt the van lurch, nearly slamming him headfirst into the back doors. Bright-side- a few dim running lights came on, so he could SEE the doors that almost cracked his skull open.

"Thanks a lot jack-asses! No seat belts back here, you know? Maybe driving safely would be a good idea, what'dya think?!" He yelled loudly, unsure if his voice was even carrying to the front of the van. Hopefully their sharp werewolf hearing could pick it up.

He slid his back down the side of the van's wall. Yelling was pointless, he knew. He needed a plan. It seemed as if they weren't going to kill him, at least, that was the impression Stiles had from his unpleasant visit with Peter. Of course, that meant nothing. There were still, like, a billion ways he could be tortured without being killed immediately. _Fucking fantastic!_

And where the hell was he!? No way it was still California. It all just felt… _different_.

Plus, Peter said Derek was flying to this place, across several states, so it had to be a huge distance from home.

So, scratch running off the list of possible escape plans.

But then, Derek… flying from his cozy little wolf's den in Beacon Hills to '_collect_' Stiles?

Seriously, _fuck_-! Any chance Derek wasn't going to be super-pissed with him for getting abducted? _Any at all?_ Yeah, huge 'nope' there. Derek was going to beat Stiles tiny breakable bones into powder for being such a stupid, helpless human pain in his ass.

"I am so _screwed_…" Stiles whined quietly to himself in the emptiness of the van.

The van suddenly skidded to a hard stop, sending Stiles rolling roughly into the sides.

"OUCH! But, _really_ dudes! NO SEAT BELTS OR ANYTHING BACK HERE!" He picked himself up gingerly, checking for which of the many sore places were the most painful. The loud sounds of muffled shouts and angry howls from outside had Stiles shutting up quickly.

An attack…?

_Derek_-?!

Oh, _shit_- would that scowling face be welcome right now- even if it did come with a massive ass-beating!

The noises quieted outside.

Stiles made a decision.

He positioned himself to lunge from the van as soon as the doors were opened. If it was Derek, fine. No worries at all there! Derek was used to Stiles poor decisions in the face of terrifying ordeals. But if it _wasn't_…

Yeah, no sense sitting inside the van for whatever horrors Option B held.

Dropping into a crouch, Stiles prepared himself to barrel through whoever, or whatever, was stupid enough to open the doors and come in for him.

He didn't need to wait long.

The door was suddenly thrown open with a sharp click, and Stiles flew at the exit, shoulders dipped to make maximum contact and clear anyone or thing in his way.

He felt his body make contact with another, more solid, body, which let out a startled grunt at the impact. Stiles was airborne for a brief moment, feet ready to bolt as soon as they felt solid ground beneath them.

Instead, a pair of strong arms wrapped around him, pulling him tight against the firm body. The next second, Stiles was being hefted full-bodily back into the van.

He struggled, kicking back against the body holding him while trying to wiggle around to face his latest captor.

A breathy voice rumbled next to his ear, "Stop doing that- I don't have much time."

It was NOT Derek's voice. So much for wishful thinking…

Stiles gave up resisting as the arms tightened around him threatening to strangle the air from his lungs. After a few moments of heavy breathing, he was slowly released.

Stiles spun around-

-to find the Alpha from the school watching him intently. _Mischa_, they had called him. He was positioned so that Stiles would have to go around him to make it back out of the van.

Which wasn't a possibility. The guy was a more effective deterrent to escape than the metal walls of the van itself. For a moment Stiles wandered if this meeting was going to devolve into another partially-unwelcome groping party like before. He swallowed thickly at the thought.

Trapped again. This time, by a gay, schizophrenic Alpha werewolf. Stiles had all the luck…

"I have to be quick." The man stated, his deep, hurried voice cutting into the silence sending shivers through Stiles body. His sharp blue eyes never left Stiles' brown ones. His next words almost made Stiles risk rushing past him for escape. "I want to claim you as my mate. I will come for you from the direction of the Durst pack territory tonight, at The Hunt. Run in that direction and I will meet you and perform the claiming immediately. I would do it now, but… it is not _authorized_. I must compete for you." He seemed very unhappy that he was being forced to wait. Stiles made a horrified choking sound as the man continued, growling. "I promise I will be a good mate. You will not regret it." He nodded for emphasis. Then, before he could react, the man crowded into Stiles' very limited personal space, and kissed him.

On the lips.

Briefly, but very enthusiastically.

_Like, hand cupping the back of his head and all._

Stiles didn't return the kiss- on principle. But, he had to admit...it was _tempting_. The fact that ANYONE was actually willing to kiss Stiles was a dramatic turn of events in Stiles life. (Hormone-driven teenager, _remember_!?)

The Alpha pulled away with a short huff, staring at Stiles with those clear blue eyes. For a second it looked like he was _sniffing_ the air. He seemed… _pleased_. Maybe even close to smiling, which probably would make him look even more amaz- Shit! NO! NO-NAUGHTY-THOUGHTS! FOR CHRIST'S SAKE!

Then the man was gone, the doors of the van shutting loudly on a frozen Stiles. From outside, he heard him yell out, "Release the Hale pack men. We're through here."

A few minutes later, there was the sound of the front doors slamming shut, and the van was moving again.

Stiles sat frozen on the floor where the Alpha had left him, the sensation of the man's warm lips lingering on his own.

All he could think as the van returned to bumping and rocking, carrying him to where ever the hell he was being taken, was _'Oh-my-God, I think a super-hot, gay werewolf just proposed to me.'_

* * *

><p>Haha! Poor Stiles is so confused. Next chapter, Derek and crew arrive, plus Stiles finds out exactly how crazy his current situation actually is.<p>

Let me know how it is looking so far, too! I can't really tell if you all like it or not unless you leave Reviews, so don't be shy!


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